13th Valley (16 page)

As dusk settled men entered the club. Music and whistles and catcalls, floor show language, shrieked in from the theater. Men came in dressed for guard duty then left and others replaced them. No one sat at the bar. When all the chairs became full men stood in clusters but no one stood at Whiteboy's bar. Whiteboy did not acknowledge the presence of the other men. He did not even turn around. He spoke laconically with Molino and continued laying cards down, playing out the solitaire hands, picking them up and shuffling. He hummed and whistled to himself as he watched the cards, occasionally singing, then returning to his thicklipped whistle.

“What's that …” Molino started, was interrupted with the selling of beers, “what you whistlin?” Whiteboy did not answer. He did not look up from the cards. “You whistling ‘Boonie Rats'?” Molino asked. Whiteboy looked up from the cards on the bar. There were only three scoring above the game. His large hands encompassed the game and shoved the cards into a pile. He said nothing. “That's what I thought,” Molino said sighing, looking far off into the small club. “That aint the way it goes. It goes like this.” He whistled the tune, quiet, melodic. Then he sang the first verse of the first stanza.
“I landed in this country,/ One year of life to give,/ My only friend a weapon,/ My only prayer, to live.”

“Ah figger Ah do it good as the nex fella,” Whiteboy said slowly.

Whiteboy whistled the tune in near monotone. Molino spoke the words to the remainder of the first stanza to Whiteboy's flat whistling, trying to elongate the big soldier's beat on long notes by stretching the vowels of his speech.
“I walked away from freedom! And the life that I had known,/ I passed the weary faces/ of the others going home./ Boonie Rats, Boonie Rats,/ Scared but not alone,/ Three hundred days more or less,/ Then I'm going home.”

“What the fuck!” A seated soldier said loudly to the men he was seated with. He rose and strutted to the far end of the bar. The Phoc Roc's music system had an amplifier powerful enough to blow out the building's flimsy walls. The soldier turned the volume up drowning Whiteboy's and Molino's duet and the shrieks and hoots from the theater.

“Keep yer mitts off the dials,” Molino commanded loudly. He threw his fists into the air feeling Whiteboy behind him. “Watch yerself, Cool.” Molino turned the stereo volume down, snarled at the soldier, replaced the record that had been playing with a Cat Stevens album and played “Moonshadow.” Molino sang along with the record.

“Here come Doc Johnson and the dudes,” Molino announced to Whiteboy. “Floor show must be bad.”

“Ef it ever was my feet,”
Jackson sang to Doc and El Paso as they bopped to the bar, Jax' head down, eyes closed, hunched forward, jiving, snapping his fingers,
“All my toes hunt gook meat/ Ef it ever was my feet,/ I won't have ta hump no maw.”

Jax looked up, hand out, Molino filled it with a beer. “Hey Dago,
¿que paso?”

“What's happenin's happenin.” Molino exchanged a short dap with the soul brother.

“I din't know, my friend Dago, gave beer en toys, to Whiteboys.”

Whiteboy shrugged. El Paso and the big soldier exchanged an extended handshake though not quite a dap.

The club filled as more soldiers came from the show in the theater. Outside it became darker and cooler. Inside the men formed into groups around the tables. Most of the soul brothers stayed to one side. The whites formed two groups, one by the bar and one by the door. The chicanos gathered in the middle and mixed with the fringe groups. There were several blacks in the predominantly white group by the bar and several whites in the black group at the side. Whiteboy, Doc, Jax and El Paso picked the last empty table which was in the center of the room, confiscated eight chairs, sat and drank.

EM clubs generally were restricted to enlisted men, privates to corporals and specialist fours. Some clubs allowed spec fives and E-5 sergeants. The Phoc Roc attracted all the younger men of the 7th of the 402d. No one was surprised to see a young officer or a young anti-army NCO. Lifers stayed away.

When the floor show ended the club was deluged and a hundred now packed the single room. Molino turned the music up but voices and laughter drowned most of it. The entire club seemed to be in an early, happy, joking stage of intoxication.

Chelini and Leon Silvers followed six blacks into the club. To the left the blacks meshed with the group of soul brothers and daps were exchanged all around.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” a tall white soldier announced into a beer can as Chelini and Silvers moved to the bar, “and welcome to ABC's Wide World of War. Tonight we take you to the jungles of the Republic of Vietnam for the finals of the ancient sport of hand-to-hand combat.”

The men standing around the tall soldier laughed and urged him on. Someone shouted, “Go to it, Rafe.”

“In the finals tonight, which, by the way, are taking place in this spacious Thua Thien arena outside the Citadel, we will see bold, courageous and humble Joseph Gee Eye pitted against the Little Giant, snarling screaming Charles V. C. Cong.”

“Yea, Charlie!” someone yelled. Silvers bought a beer for Chelini and himself. They stood to one side and watched.

“Joe, from Sometown, Anystate, weighed in prior to tonight's engagement at 187 pounds. He has a 41-inch reach and stands six-foot-one.

“Charlie, from Sauhnmhamlet, Upnorth Province, weighed in at 58 kilos, ahhh, that is 127 pounds. He stands five-foot-five and has a 34-inch reach.

“I think I just heard the sound of barbed wire being snipped—‘The National Anthem.' We are about ready for the start of tonight's fight.”

Chelini felt slightly self-conscious. His new haircut was lifer-short and his fatigues newfer-new. He stayed close to Silvers and tried to look inconspicuous.

“I noticed at the beginning of this broadcast that Joe had been in his bunker working up a high on Laotian Red. You should note that Joe has several M-67 frags hanging from his belt, a bandoleer of 5.56 M-16 magazines and a black plastic weapon made by Mattel. Bayonet is affixed.”

“Sock it to em, Joe.” The club was becoming rowdy.

“Could we please have a little quiet here at the broadcast booth? Here at my right I have the pleasure of having Willie Moreland, who, as you know, is an internationally recognized expert at this sport. Last year, before he retired, Willie was captain of the southern All-Star Team which played the north to a 40,000 to 200,000 deadlock. Willie, the fans and I would like to know how you think Joe will open up tonight if he wins the toss of the coin. Would you comment?”

The soldier turned to the bar then turned back with his shoulders hunched and his head cocked back. “Hey, this guy's really good,” Chelini whispered to Silvers.

“Yeah,” Silvers said louder. “That's Ridgefield. He's from Alpha too. Like us.”

“Well, Jim,” the soldier continued in a high voice, “as you know we like to encourage the boys to open with a bang. Sometimes a short burst will be effective.”

The tall soldier turned again to the bar and returned as the announcer. “And what if Charlie wins the toss? Do you think Joe will be able to open with the same move?

“No, definitely not, Jim. He will probably open with a vertical butt stroke series or maybe a long thrust and hold. It really depends then on what VC, ah, Jim, you don't mind if I refer to the boy from the north as VC do you?

“No, not at all.

“Well, Jim. If VC pulls something unusual, Gee Eye may have to counter with something unusual.

“I hate to interrupt you, Willie, but I just noticed that Chuck has a Samurai sword and two bags of plastic explosive. That is kind of unusual, isn't it?

“Yes, Jim, it is. VC usually moves with a minimum of weight and that's a mighty large sword. He usually depends on speed, you know.

“From my seat high above Firebase Kathryn I can see that Charlie has won the toss of the coin. He's opening with a diversionary tactic. I see some blue-white flame off to the left.

“Jim, I think Gee Eye is groovin on the flames …”

“Come on,” Silvers nudged Chelini, “Let's go over there where Doc and Jax are.” They worked their way through the crowd, bodies parted before them and closed behind. At the table in the middle Jackson jumped from his seat.

“See that,” Jax shouted holding up his fists. “Fast as rockets.” He jumped into the air and spun fully around firing both hands at imaginary targets. “Mean, babe, mean. That's ARA—aimed right atchya. Don't mess with this dude. Floats like a butterfly, stings like a B-52.”

Five other soldiers were now sitting with Jax, Doc, Whiteboy and El Paso. Others stood by the group listening or watching. The center group seemed to control the club's mood.

“Hey,” El Paso shouted, “the Jew's comin ta join us. Watch yer MPC, babes; he looks like he's got some dirty pictures to sell.”

“Hey, Molino,” one of the soldiers surrounding the seated group at the table called, “give the Jew a Fresca, on me.”

“Hey,” Silvers addressed Chelini. “This is El Paso and Garbageman. That's Doc and Jax. Whiteboy, Numbnuts, Boom-Boom, Monk and Brunak. Got that? This is Cherry.”

“Yous just come in from the show?” A seated soldier asked, then added, “That was a real downer.”

“Those Filipino strippers were the worst I ever seen.”

“I liked the one with the big jugs.”

“That's plastic, Man. Gooks got little tits.”

“Oooooh, Man. Forget them,” El Paso said. He nodded toward Doc Johnson. “Doc and Top went to the ville and brought some ladies back.”

“OOOoo-OOOo,” a soldier whistled. “We are gonna have fun tonight.”

“Doc. You made sure them ladies is clean, didn't ya?”

“Who you think you playin with, Mista?”

“How much?” Silvers asked.

“For you, Jew? One shot? Back a the line? Pound a flesh and 100 piasters.”

“He aint gonna have ta pound his flesh tonight,” Boom-Boom laughed.

“L-T's pickin up the tab,” Doc said, “with his own bread.” “Man,” Jackson spoke up. “They's ugly. Uggglee, I mean. One so ugly she gotta sneak up on her meals ta get somethin ta eat.”

“Yeah, but it's big,” Numbnuts said.

Someone stuck his hand over the table and formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger and laughed, “This big?”

A soldier who'd been there formed his arms into a circle over his head. “No, Man. This big. It's so big you kin stand back a hundred yards and throw grenades inta it.” Everyone laughed.

Chelini felt even more self-conscious being near the center group. No one addressed him. Men at the fringe of the seated group stuck their ears in for a bit then went back to drinking beer from cans or looking about or talking more softly to others standing at the fringe. Chelini looked at the bar. The man who had announced the hand-to-hand sporting event was now sitting on the bar simulating the sound of an early radio broadcast. “Aaaahh, this is rumor control reporting directly to you out there in radio land from the Phuc Ruc TOC,” the voice whined. “Rumor here has it,” the voice went on with crackles, “that the Big Screaming Yellow Chicken himself, CO of the flock, has personally requested to put your sweet asses under the operational control of the Third Brigade for a brief trip to the DMZ. Rumor has it that the Screaming Bird was so impressed at how good you is, he thought kindly enough to arrange a direct scrimmage for you with Uncle's little men. Big Bird offers his condolences for not being able to participate hisself …”

Soldiers near the announcer cracked with laughter and stoned giggling. The man continued. “At early dawn, on good sources, rumor has it here at control HQ, that is right, right here at Hotel Quicksilver, that the men from Uncle have called for …”

Chelini turned halfway back to the table. A man beside him was saying, “… R&R. I said to her, ‘The way I'd really like to try it next is in a bathtub full of peanut butter.' And she coos, ‘Oh, Bill. You're so sensual.' So …”

Another conversation spilled into Chelini's ears. “… if Yastrzemski can't get Boston inta the Series …” “Yer fuckin nuts, Duke. Boston's in the cellar. They …”

Chelini turned back to the table. Jackson was looking at him. He nodded to Jackson and grinned an indecisive grin. “Don't they teach you nothin, Man?” Jackson accused him.

“What? I mean, excuse me?” He had not expected anyone to address him.

“Don't they teach you cherries nothin?” Jackson said standing up. He pulled Chelini toward him, into the focal point of the group's attention. “Prepare yo mind, body and soul, for the number one GI Joe of Attack Company Seven of the Four-Oh-Two. Jax' here to square away you.”

“What?” Chelini asked sheepishly.

“Yo dog tags, Man.”

Silvers looked at Chelini and shook his head.

“Take em off,” Jax ordered.

Chelini removed a chain from around his neck on which the two identification tags hung.

“Boy. Now yo gowin take off yo boots,” Jax said.

Chelini looked past Jackson to Silvers. Silvers shook his head in confirmation and pointed a finger in mock disgust. Chelini bent over and began untying his bootlaces.

“Sit in my chair, Boy,” Jax ordered.

Chelini sat down and removed his boots. Everyone in the group had become serious. Jackson took one boot and handed it to Doc. He took the other boot and handed it to El Paso. Chelini looked at his boots and blushed slightly. The boots still looked brand-new. Doc and El Paso unlaced the boots down to the first eyelets. Silvers grabbed Chelini's chain and removed the dog tags and handed one to Doc and one to El Paso. The two men with the boots took the tags and slid them onto the laces and began relacing.

“You cherries,” Jackson said. “What Doc gowin do when yo loose yo head, when yo dead. Yo got only one head, yo know. So. Yo got two feet, neat. Chances yo loosin two feet is lots worse than chances yo loosin one head.”